


The Return of Drabble Tuesdays, 2017 Edition

by methylviolet10b



Series: Tuesday Drabbles [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drabble Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9624539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Once again I'm reviving my quest to supply Tuesdays with drabbles, five words at a time. Hang on, it's sure to be a random ride!





	1. Resistance, Combustible, Earache, Bees, Profligate

**Resistance**  
  
“My dear Watson, I appreciate your offer, but this is hardly a matter for you. It’s far too dangerous.” And you are still unwell and not fit for such things, I did not add. A few weeks in his company had taught me that John Watson would never put his own welfare high on the list of personal considerations.  
  
Watson’s eyes glittered with the temper he’d warned me of, but his voice was mild. “If you are going, I’m going.”  
  
Perfectly mild, and perfectly resolute. I had anticipated objections, but not this firm resistance.  
  
I had much yet to learn.  
  
  
**Combustible**  
  
It was scarcely more than a shepherd’s hut, a crude structure of wattle and daub. But the ancient walls thankfully kept off most of the bitter wind. A quick rummage produced enough combustible material to serve, and before long I had a small fire going. The smoke did not improve the musty atmosphere, but did provide a welcome bit of warmth.  
  
Holmes finished wrestling the door into place and cast an approving eye at the meagre fire. “Well done, Watson, but I’m afraid we will pass an uncomfortable night regardless of your efforts.”  
  
“No matter, Holmes. I’ve slept in worse.”  
  
  
**Earache**  
  
He’s a funny sort, Mister Holmes. Sometimes he’s quiet as a mouse. Hardly moves for days. He’ll stare right through you as if you weren’t even there, tryin’ to do your duty and clear away the dishes.  
  
Other times he’s noisier than a thunderstorm. Makes all sorts of racket and talks so incessantly at Doctor Watson I suspect the poor doctor has to give himself a compound or get an earache.  
  
I’m not sorry Mrs Hudson restricted me to downstairs duties after I emptied the sitting-room wastebaskets without being told. I’ve never heard such language – and my uncle’s a sailor.  
  
  
**Bees**  
  
This wasn’t one of Mr Holmes’ usual tempers. He’s got lots of them, and I should know, having been on the receiving end oftener than I’d tolerate from any other man. There’s his high-handed slights, and his remarks like stings from an angry swarm of bees, and his cold standoffishness. Harsher are the outbursts when he thinks your investigation has done more harm than good, or his dark fury when the guilty escape justice.  
  
This was worse. Not that I could blame him, seeing what those traffickers had done to those poor women, but somehow this rage seemed more personal.  
  
  
**Profligate**  
  
The Honourable George Merrithwaite, third son of an otherwise irreproachable family, was anything but honourable in his personal life. A more profligate, licentious, mean-spirited bully of a man would be difficult to find in all of England. Wealth, privilege, and position had long shielded him from facing any real consequences of his behaviour.  
  
Unfortunately for him, Holmes disdains aristocrats who lack nobility, and has a chivalrous streak when it comes to women, particularly spirited ones who bravely fight against the odds.  
  
And we both dislike bullies. For Holmes it is a matter of principle; for myself, a matter of experience.


	2. 2/14: Palliative, Hippopotamus, Persiflage, Coal, Corgi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character(s): Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Gregson  
> Summary: 100-word drabbles for five random words. No plot, no problem!  
> Warnings: These are random, just like a box of chocolates. Random Victorian trivia, with links. A metric ton of rust on the part of the author. Be very afraid. I know I am.

  
**palliative**

Watson collapsed, and I panicked.

That is the only excuse for the confused farrago of half-truths and outright nonsense I spouted once he came out of his faint.

At least my apologies to Watson were completely sincere and entirely heartfelt. However, I knew even as I uttered them that they were a palliative measure at best. They would only briefly delay the moment when I must provide a truthful, complete, and equally heartfelt explanation for my actions – and my errors.

It was an unpleasant but necessary medicine. It was also the best hope for Watson’s true recovery, and my own.

 

**hippopotamus**

“Headache, dear fellow?”

“Nothing so simple, blast it. I’ve had a tune stuck in my head all day! That one you kept playing on a hurdy-gurdy in the Westminster Strangler case.”

I swept up my violin and played a few notes. “This one?”

“Yes! I should know it, but can’t put a name to the tune.”

“The [Hippopotamus Polka](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_h2OAtDAMY) was quite popular some years ago.” I’d seen the beast that inspired the tune and been irresistibly drawn to play it at the crisis. [Obaysch](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Obaysch), like our strangler, had escaped but been lured back by the chance to attack his jailer.

 

**persiflage**

I have more education than any other three Inspectors in the Yard, but I admit Mr Holmes remains a conundrum in many ways. I have studied him extensively, for only a fool allows pique (however well-earned) to deter learning from someone who has proven a greater master of an art than oneself.

Even so, I know him well enough to realize even the tiniest bit of persiflage on his part heralds trouble, an unfriendly ear nearby, or both. Mr Holmes is witty enough in his way, but trifling? Not on his life – unless he has a very good reason indeed.

 

**coal**

I placed several more pieces of coal on the sitting-room fire. I thought I was silent, but Holmes stirred restlessly. His eyes opened a fraction, glinting fever-bright in the light of the lamps, and focused on me.

“No need to look so worried, Watson,” he rasped, his voice a hoarse ruin of his usual tenor. “I’m all right.”

Exasperation flooded through me, but I kept my voice low and calm. “Perhaps you’d best let me be the judge of that. I am still a doctor, you know.”

Fever or not, Holmes saw through me. “And I am in excellent hands.”

 

**corgi**

The Honourable Mrs Georgina Russell did not approve of Holmes. Many nobler clients found Holmes’ direct manner and Bohemian disdain of rank grating. Holmes’ own innate distrust of the gentler sex, particularly those who valued manners and propriety higher than practicality, only exacerbated matters.

Our interview started badly, and might have turned disastrous, had Fate not intervened in the form of a half-grown Corgi. She bolted into the room and promptly flopped down in front of Holmes’ chair. My friend could not resist the invitation; and the lady’s reserve melted in the face of the dog’s and detective’s mutual enjoyment.


	3. 2/21: Alacrity, Velocity, Red Ink, Fingernail, Cloche

  
**alacrity**  
  
My friend is capable of extraordinary feats. Always swift of thought, he is equally quick in his movements, whether in defence, offense, or merely art.   
  
His swiftness and marksmanship with a pistol, while extremely good, is not as noteworthy. Perhaps that is why he first asked me to also carry a gun. I prefer to think that he recognized I could still wield one with alacrity and skill despite my other handicaps.   
  
Over time, it became Holmes’ habit to rely on my revolver instead of carrying his own. I have done my best to ensure he never regrets that trust.  
  
  
 **velocity**  
  
“Doctor Watson, hurry!”  
  
I was at the boy’s side before the constable finished calling my name. And he was a boy, hardly more than a child, despite the daring thefts and ugly assaults he had to his discredit.   
  
Judging from the volume of blood on his clothes and the velocity with which it jetted from the wound in his arm, the thief stood little chance of surviving to be tried for his misdeeds. I clamped down firmly on the limb just the same. He was no longer a criminal, but my patient; Death was the enemy I would always fight.  
  
  
 **red ink**  
  
Holmes said little on the cab-ride back to Baker Street. His empathetic silence was soothing, more so than words could have been.   
  
There were no words for this. Every patient I lost, every man who died under my hands (and there were many) became one more name written in red ink upon my soul. The intangible weight of one more name, however villainous, was painful all the same.  
  
Holmes would say, rightly, that the boy had robbed and beaten others, had tried to kill us both.  
  
Holmes did not have the boy’s blood drying in rusty stains on his clothes.  
  
  
 **fingernail**  
  
I cannot read the history of a man’s life in the creases of a shoe, or determine his recent whereabouts just by the stains on a fingernail. But I am an Inspector, and a good one. More than that, I know Mr Holmes tolerably well at this point, possibly as well as anyone except Doctor Watson.  
  
It hardly took any observation to notice that the Doctor wasn’t himself today. He put a good face on it, but I know a man in pain when I see one.  
  
And it’s no challenge to deduce an unwell Doctor means an irritable detective.  
  
  
 **cloche**  
  
It was still winter in our garden, and for my bees snug in their beehives. I would have gladly remained indoors and snug by the fireside.  
  
For Watson, however, spring was already here. Between the coldframes and the bell-like glass cloche I had (perhaps foolishly) given him last Christmas, he had dozens of tiny shoots already above ground. My Watson insisted in going out at least once a day to check on their progress.  
  
Where he goes, I follow. So I was on hand to see his delight as he shuffled between frames. And I saw when he suddenly crumpled.


	4. 2/28: Posthumous, Fletcher, Paralysis, Wren, Emulsify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character(s): Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Hopkins, Mycroft Holmes  
> Warnings: By popular demand, one of these continues a story started in one of last week's drabbles. A metric ton of rust on the part of the author. Be very afraid. I know I am.

**posthumous**  
  
“You must remind me, Watson: what name applies to doctors who insist on ignoring symptoms and treating themselves?”  
  
Fear sharpened the bite of Holmes’ words. The light in my room was dim, but enough for me to see other emotions ageing his countenance. I pressed his hand with all the strength I could muster. “I’ll be all right, dear fellow.”  
  
“So Doctor _Jenkins_ assures me.” Holmes sighed. “It would be a peculiar sort of posthumous fame, perishing amongst the petunias after surviving two wars and innumerable cases. All the same, I am very glad it shall not be your epitaph.”  
  
  
 **fletcher**  
  
Soldiers will do almost anything to avoid boredom. It was true in my first term of service in Afghanistan, where I witnessed men painstakingly polish common rocks into marbles, wager on the flight of butterflies, and invent endless filthy limericks.   
  
It is true here again in the hospital tents, behind the trenches but still well inside the war. Whether it’s an orderly turning fletcher with pigeon-feathers, shattered splints, and glue; or ambulance drivers inventing point systems for wounds, we all invent ways to stay busy.  
  
For with boredom comes time to think, and none among us will willingly bear that.  
  
  
 **paralysis**  
  
“…and that’s all there was to it, Lestrade. It was perfectly obvious that the junior apprentice was the thief from the state of his boots. You really must learn to pay attention to the details. Now I must be off. I have some other matters to attend to.”  
  
My junior colleague stared after Mr Holmes. His jaw appeared to be stricken by a peculiar form of paralysis.  
  
“You’ll get used to Mr Holmes’ ways eventually,” I assured him.  
  
Hopkins finally closed his mouth. To my amazement, he looked less irritated than…awestruck. Almost worshipful. “I hope I shall be so lucky.”  
  
  
 **wren**  
  
She wasn’t much to look at, to be honest. Compared to her compatriots she was practically drab, a grey wren among the peacocks, pheasants, and jays fluttering for attention.   
  
But like the bird she reminded me of, her eyes were bright, her manner alert. I gradually overcame her initial shyness, and with the right encouragement, she her song fell upon my ears, well worth the hearing.  
  
For she knew Holmes, though not by that name. She’d encountered him several times, most recently a scant four days ago.   
  
I am a doctor, no detective, but I was on the right track.  
  
  
 **emulsify**  
  
The skills required for becoming a doctor, much less an excellent one, are far beyond the general understanding of anatomy. Almost anyone can learn to compound a simple physic or emulsify a liniment. Far fewer can master the subtleties of diagnosis, or the professional manner that inspires confidence and candour in patients. A rare handful combine this with innate courage, steadiness, and calm under the most extreme conditions.   
  
Only one ever earned the confidence and trust of Sherlock Holmes.   
  
I never understood why my brother’s Watson described himself as an undistinguished doctor, but it was one of his greatest lies.


	5. Bonus set: incendiary, sabot, heartbreaking, queue, corbels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self-indulgence on the part of the author, but hey, these are a bonus set, so they are what they are. Be very afraid. I know I am.

**incendiary**  
The true story of the Amateur Mendicant Society, had it ever become public, would have destroyed more than fifty men. The incendiary revelations might have even brought down portions of Her Majesty’s government. Fortunately Holmes was able to discover the would-be blackmailer and destroy the proof he had gathered. Not, however, before he brought it to the leaders of the Society.   
  
The group disbanded, and was soon forgotten by the world. But I would always remember it. And I have often wondered whether they had truly given up their practices, or merely found a more discreet way of coming together.  
  
  
 **sabot**  
It is not surprising that the memorabilia of more than two decades of cases should contain some remarkable relics along with all the paper. Some, like the silver-framed photograph of Irene Adler, or the golden statue of Ganesh, have obvious worth. Others, like the curio box with a protruding spring, or the singed silver-paper fan, seem little more than junk without knowledge of the stories behind them.  
  
And then... I’m sure Holmes has some reason for keeping a solid silver sabot, a glass slipper, and a beaded leather moccasin, but I confess they seem evidence of a bizarre footwear fetish.  
  
  
 **heartbreaking**  
“Please, Mr Holmes. You must help me. I have nowhere else to turn.”  
  
The woman’s story was harrowing, a heartbreaking tale of ill-use, treachery, and foul treatment from those whose first duty should have been her protection. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Watson sitting in his armchair, practically quivering with outrage and the inborn urge to rise up in our client’s defence.   
  
My Watson is a noble creature, but not the keenest observer. I smiled thinly. “Your case is most piteous, Miss Gibson – or it would be, if a single word of it was true.”  
  
  
 **queue**  
I have grown accustomed to seeing Holmes in various disguises. Some, like those of the decrepit bookseller and Captain Basil, are old friends now, comforting in their familiarity. Others remain largely unknown to me, merest glimpses in passing: a red-headed groom who watches me as he idles on a corner, a cigarette dangling from calloused fingers; a merry merchantman, stout and grey-eyed; a slim and aesthetic priest.  
  
The Scottish nobleman at a ball, long dark hair caught up in a neat queue at his name, sinewy legs shown to advantage by dress kilt and hose? A most memorable disguise indeed.   
  
  
**corbels**  
I used to know London. From the lowest tunnels and underground mews, to the highest towers with their bells and corbels; every meandering street and alley; every cab-stand and train station; every brickwork-caged river and tide-fouled shoreline; all of it known, all of it secure in my brain-attic.  
  
I do not know this London.   
  
A scant decade should not measure greatly in the steel ligaments and stone bones of a city, and yet much has changed. Too much. Or perhaps it is I, worn down by retirement and the winds of oncoming war, that have changed out of all recognition.


End file.
